The Candy Shop: Moon Glow
by CSI Clue
Summary: All weddings have snags. Some are more complicated than others.
1. Chapter 1

Mr. Peppermint tried hard not to stare; it was too easily caught by other people, and he knew that at the moment nobody was supposed to notice him. He opened another bottle of champagne and poured it deftly, long practice serving him well as he timed the rise and fall of the foam perfectly, filling glass after glass with precision. As he finished, he nodded to the young woman standing by to carry the tray off, and then glanced again towards the distance, where a groom and a bride were caught up in an intimate conversation.

The couple didn't look happy; Mr. Peppermint assumed the bride had just told her groom about the contract. He was glaring at her now, his expression one of outraged disbelief even though their conversation was still muted. Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Peppermint noted that a few more of the catering staff were heading towards him, and he busied himself opening another bottle.

The young man in front of him set his tray down and flashed a grin. "For a fairly cheap brand the stuff is really moving. Not that I'm being a snob or anything."

"It does seem to be popular," Mr. Peppermint agreed, "I think Mrs. Volomirik has just told Mr. Volomirik about the situation."

"There goes the honeymoon," Jellybean mourned playfully. "You'd think he would have at a suspicion or two, given who showed up on the Bride's side of the church."

"Love is blind," Mr. Peppermint responded absently, keeping his eyes on the couple. Another caterer set a tray down and began unloading empty glasses as Jellybean picked his up and glided off, ever the consummate waiter.

"Licorice says a couple of limos just pulled up in the parking lot," Jawbreaker murmured, sliding his tray in front of Mr. Peppermint. "Could be our wedding crashers."

"We'll know soon enough. Everyone's in position?"

Jawbreaker nodded confidently. "Yep. Man, I hope you serve better champagne at your wedding. I wouldn't use this stuff for salad dressing."

Mr. Peppermint made a pained little moue. "I didn't choose it, I just open and pour it."

"Yeah, I know. Call it a job hazard," came the light tease. "We'll make sure you get quality bubbly."

"Least of our concerns for the moment," Mr. Peppermint pointed out as he finished pouring. "Status?"

Jellybean murmured something in the direction of his collar button and straightened up, looking alert. "We've got company."

"Fashionably late," Mr. Peppermint noted, and smoothly set the remaining champagne bottles down under the cloth-covered table. "Time to talk to the bride." He moved around the table, heading for Mrs. Volomirik and her husband. He took the bride by her elbow, steering her off in one direction as Jawbreaker did the same for Mr. Volomirik in another, their co-ordination as smoothly done as a dance step.

At far end of the reception hall, the doors flew open, and loud shouts in guttural Russian echoed through the room. Guests scattered, driven by instinctive self-defense. A few glasses broke, and someone gave a startled yell at the sight of the guns toted by three large thugs.

They strode around the room, clearly searching for someone.

After a few moments of panic and confusion, the growing wail of police sirens cut in over the soft warbling of Karen Carpenter from the DJ's booth, and the brutes glared at the guests. One of them spoke to the others, and they moved out of the reception hall, not running precisely, but certainly hustling with enough speed to disappear again within a few minutes.

Looking up from doorway of the kitchen, Miss Chocolate exchanged glances with Sugar Baby, the two of them alert, but amused. Sugar Baby gave a little sigh. "Shucks, they could have waited until the cake cutting."

"Street corner guns for hire," Miss Chocolate replied dismissively. "No class. Now if it had been you and your dad on the job—"

"—Oh we'd have hung on until the bride and groom drove off, totally. Car bomb if the client wanted to make a public statement, cyanide in the bridal suite champagne if they didn't," Sugar Baby sighed.

"Finesse," Miss Chocolate agreed with a small grin. "A Shop specialty."

Sugar Baby winked, and began picking up the catering supplies. "So now we're in for police questioning, and it's a damn shame our van got jacked, huh?"

"A damned shame," Miss Chocolate agreed. "Considering we had a three foot cake, two cases more of champagne and all our paperwork and ID in it--along with the bride and groom."

"Yeah." Sugar Baby sighed. "I'm going to whip up some fake tears to make my mascara run now, if that's okay with you."

"Go for it," Miss Chocolate nodded, and pushed the swinging door open enough to let herself out. The room was full of panicked guests milling around as the first of the police came into the reception hall. Miss Chocolate whipped out her cell phone and made a quick call. It buzzed twice and a familiar voice came over the line.

"Hello."

"Hey," she replied, smiling. "So I figure I'll be here until about seven or so, barring any further questioning. How are things in the truck?"

"Much quieter now that we've sedated Mr. Volomirik. He's having a nice little snooze that should leave him well-rested for his wedding night."

"Thoughtful of you," Miss Chocolate murmured, "and romantic."

"A little extra service we provide. Makes packing him on the plane to Cabo San Lucas that much easier," Mr. Peppermint agreed. "The cake was lovely, by the way."

"Was?"

"Mr. Volomirik sort of fell into it while we were having the discussion about the necessity of being quiet. Fortunately Mrs. Volomirik saved the topper and says to tell you she'll treasure it."

"Glad to hear it," Miss Chocolate chuckled. She paused for a moment and added, "I'll miss you—come home soon."

"As soon as I've dropped off our Soviet sweethearts I will be winging my way back to you," he told her in a lowered voice.

Miss Chocolate murmured something sweet, receiving something slightly scandalous in reply and had to hide her grin as she hung up.

Two days, on the outside—piece of cake.

David Phillips stood over a bolt of pale ivory linen and thought. Anyone looking at him would have assumed he was daydreaming; off in some fantasy far and away from the cloth under his stroking fingers.

They would be wrong though—this was simply the outward appearance of his greatest talent: envisioning. With his sense of touch on the material, David Phillips could concentrate and create designs for it by the hundreds. Time and experience had given him the ability to sort through his visions quickly, keeping the best and most expedient choices in mind, but the freedom to soar through endless creations all focused to the material at hand was unique.

Sometimes disquieting too. When he was younger and more impatient David had tried drawing everything as it came to mind, and found himself jumbling through messes instead of clear images. Later, when he'd leaned for focus, he'd figured out to keep paper and pencil close by; sheets laid out neatly in a row, ready for his quick sketches.

Back in his old job, David had learned to hide his ideas after a while; that if he left them out or shared them that they would end up as 'triumphs' of other costume designers around him. The first few thefts infuriated him, but afterwards he learned to keep them away from jealous, covetous eyes, storing them in black notebooks in a safe deposit box.

But this position at the Shop—being in charge of his own shop now, was amazing. The freedom to sketch and design openly; to follow his own patterns and not those dictated to him by petty and demanding overseers was proving to be a true delight. David loved running the Closet, and took to it with the devotion of a priest of fashion.

Everything mattered, from the mock-up of a UPS driver's uniform all the way through African kaftans and grungewear. David kept abreast of everything on the streets of Las Vegas, and with the help of Josette, ran the Closet with enviable efficiency. Costumes went out and came back precisely on time; items were cleaned, pressed, stored and created on accurate timetables, and on top of it all, David managed to give each agent his personal attention.

At the moment, he was off the clock and thinking about the bride. Her long lines and eclectic style merged in his thoughts along with her general coloring and persona, a streamlined set of statistics that formed an image in his thoughts. The linen was a lovely polished bolt with a brocade in the fabric, lightweight enough for Vegas heat, but rich enough to give good lines to any dress made from it.

David smiled. He moved to the first sheet of paper and picked up the pencil, then quickly drew several lines, intersecting here, flowing there. After a moment, he shifted a step to the right and began to draw on the next piece of paper on the table. Within a few minutes he'd done three designs in a row, all of them different, all of them possible and beautiful.

A knock at the door made him look up. "It's open," David called softly and pushed his glasses up at the nosepiece. A familiar face peeked around, smiling.

"Not interrupting, am I?" Josette asked, a hint of awe in her voice. David went a little pink and shook his head; her admiration still made him blush, even though he tried not to. Josette slipped inside, glancing over at the sketches and then looking away quickly, as if she'd committed a crime in merely peeking. David waved her over.

"Come take a look and tell me what you think."

Hesitantly Josette did, turning her thoughtful gaze down onto the sketches. She stared for a while at each of them, and stayed silent, making David nervous. He waited as patiently as he could, and just as he was about to speak, she cleared her throat. "They're wonderful."

"You don't like them," David interjected, but Josette cocked her head at him, her look amused and slightly annoyed. She flicked one long cornrow blade back over her shoulder and grinned.

"I love them; I'm just thinking about the complementing tones to go with each. Gold? Peach? Something to match the groom?"

"Any of those would work, or any thematic the bride may want—in this case, I was thinking small . . . chocolate touches," David murmured. Josette's smile widened, and she picked up the first sketch, looking at it more closely.

"Oh yesss! Maybe some tiny lace or vines in chocolate along the trim, and chocolate accents for the buttons and shoes and veil—"Abruptly Josette stopped and looked at David, wide-eyed. "Uhhh, that is, if you think it's a good idea. And if it's what the bride would like of course."

David nodded, and spoke again, his voice soft. "I have in my trimmings collection, a set of eight, tiny chocolate enamel buttons in the shape of Hershey Kisses. If we used them right down the back of the dress--"

Josette squeaked in delight. "Yes! And we've got some of that sheer ivory netting with the scalloped edges in brown satin as well—it would make terrific veiling, or even underskirt if you wanted a fuller one."

They jotted ideas on the sketches, filling the blank areas around the drawings with notes and commentary, and after nearly forty minutes all three pages were full, front and back. Josette sighed happily, and glanced at David in the little lull that fell over them. He picked up the papers and stacked them neatly. "Thank you, Josette."

"My pleasure," she told him gently. "Completely. I never thought—" she paused for a moment, and gathering courage, continued, "—that I'd get to do this."

"This?" David asked, slightly confused. Josette pulled her hands out of her smock pockets and waved them around the fitting room.

"This. Design things from the bolt. Be in on the ground floor of so much clothing! It's like being Wardrobe mistress of the best show on Broadway, and it's all for real. That's a head rush, David!"

"Yeah, I know what you mean," he nodded emphatically. "It's just as cool making sure the Sugar High Catering costumes are right as it is coming up with original designs like these."

"That's it exactly," Josette nodded. She glanced at her watch and gave David a quick look. "Oh, I meant to ask—would it be okay if I left a little early tonight? I have a date," she murmured, looking down.

David's shoulders slumped a bit, but he hid his disappointment and nodded quickly. "Oh, yes, of course—I can handle the returns tonight, that's fine. Going out to dinner?"

"Oh no, just for drinks . . . " Josette replied vaguely. "My sister set it up, and I sort of have to go. I'll be in early tomorrow though, to make up for it, all right?"

"You don't have to do that—" David stammered, watching as Josette gracefully pulled her smock off and hung it neatly on the coat rack near the door. She scooped her ID badge out of the pocket and lightly tossed it up, catching it neatly.

"I know, but I want to. Besides, it's a full moon tonight, and I don't want to be out when the crazies are on the road, you know? Night—see you tomorrow!" With that she was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

David blinked a little, and checked his own watch; costumes were due in by five. Sundown was at seven—that would be all right if everything went off without a problem, but this was the Candy Shop, and he was beginning to realize that predictability wasn't possible here.

He carefully put the sketches away.

The private charter began a descent towards a little landing strip just north of Cabo San Lucas, and Mr. Peppermint smiled to himself, giving in to a moment of personal time. The Volomiriks were in appropriately touristy outfits now; the bride had exchanged her fluffy white gown for shorts and a bright yellow tank top, and her groom was decked out in shorts as well, with a garish Madras shirt. He was still groggy, but far less aggressive now; his dose of sedative was wearing off. He and his bride muttered in Russian to each other, and Mr. Peppermint listened to them bicker in whispers.

"_Your father is a real prick, you know that? A diamond grade asshole, Tina."_

"_Yes, well you were the one who insisted on a public wedding. If you piss a line in front of him, he's going to step over it."_

"_Fucking wolf turd."_

"_I know, sweetheart, I know. But we'll spend a few weeks here fishing, and then we can get back to Chicago and see Mama and Uncle Peter about the money."_

"_I bet half my aunts wet their pants. Damn your father."_

"_Let it go, Stan. We're going to have a good time fishing. You like fishing."_

The groom seemed to brighten at this and gave a nod. In faintly accented English he spoke to Mr. Peppermint. "So we're good, yeah?"

"We're good, Mr. Volomirik. Your disgruntled father-in-law is being held for disturbing the peace, and we have several eyewitnesses that swear you and your bride got into a taxi. Everyone knows you're on your honeymoon in Hawaii."

"Sorry about . . . earlier," Volomirik muttered, looking away. "I was a little . . . agitated."

Mr. Peppermint gave a nod and just then the soft 'bump' of the wheels touching down broke into whatever reply he was going to give.

They landed, and taxied in; the Volomiriks were delivered to the hotel and Mr. Peppermint gave them all the necessary information before catching a taxi and heading to his own hotel much closer to the ocean.

The concierge at the hotel nodded and passed him his room key. "Senor Pimienta."

He checked in and managed to relax once the sun began to set; escort work wasn't always easy, but this had been a potentially dangerous trip and it still had the possibility to be a problem if anyone had leaked information. Anything was possible when personal grudges were a factor.

Mr. Peppermint didn't bother with the lights in his room. Instead, Mr. Peppermint crossed the room and opened the sliding glass door. He stepped out onto the balcony, noting the full moon, and for a moment wished Miss Chocolate was with him. The scent of the ocean was on the evening air, and he was feeling the separation keenly. Mr. Peppermint allowed himself a lingering moment of melancholy and turned back inside the darkness.

The jab of the hypodermic against his hip startled him and turning he struggled. It was too late though, and even as he broke away from his assailant and tried to reach the door, Mr. Peppermint sagged and dropped, first to his knees and then flat out, on the carpet of the room.

"I hate ties," Mike TeeVee muttered, glaring at his own reflection in the mirror. The face looking back was equally annoyed, but not familiar; he wore a full beard now, and had applied foundation to give him a darker skin tone.

"All men hate ties. I think it's a genetic thing."

"It's a resistance to the noose," Mike responded sourly. "Why don't women wear them?"

"Because we're stuck with bras and high heels," Catherine replied absently. She came out of the bathroom and over to him, planting her hands on her hips. "Need help?"

"Sure," he managed, stunned by her appearance. Catherine had the sleek, assured look of a Washington socialite ready for a night on the town, which was precisely what she was supposed to be tonight. She stepped closer, reaching to work a Windsor knot, and he could smell the subtle scent of Emerald Fire on her. "You look . . . . "

"Yes?"

"Ha-cha-cha," he rumbled, pleased to see her blush a little.

She lifted her head to look up at him, smiling. Catherine tossed her hair back a little and gave a sigh. "I've only been gone two weeks—"

"And it feels like it's been fourteen days," Mike softly teased, but with honesty.

"Then you'll just have to give me a good welcome back after we wine and dine at the Gala this evening, won't you?" Catherine replied saucily, tightening the tie. Mike took a deep breath as he watched her saunter back to the bathroom, knowing it was going to be a looooonnnnnng night.


	2. Chapter 2

Josette tried not to check her watch, but the urge was strong, and she fought it, trying to focus on the man across from her at the table. He was good-looking, and seemed to be amusing, but there was something a little too predatory in his gaze for her comfort, and she turned back to her Ruby Red in an attempt to find something to do.

She hated blind dates.

But she owed Cecilia, and this was the marker, called in fair and square, a night keeping company with this Luis Ramon so that Cecilia could date his cousin without a third wheel for the evening. And Luis was certainly talkative, rambling on about the things he owned and the movies he'd seen.

But he didn't smell right, and all this chatter was starting to get on her nerves. Josette liked a chance to talk too, and the openings during Luis's monolog had been few and far between. She shifted thoughts and the image of her gentle, round-shouldered boss immediately came to mind, making her smile briefly.

David was a sweetheart. She'd watched him take over the Closet from the part-timers and turn it from a haphazard center of constant small crises into a smooth and efficient operation. He'd given her a big chunk of responsibility in running the schedule and ordering supplies and she loved it. She loved the way he looked over the list of requests each morning and discussed them with her over coffee. The way he kept the machines in good order and sometimes brought her a root beer when she wasn't even aware she was thirsty. In the four months since he'd joined the Shop, Josette had looked forward to work with delight instead of stress.

And he did it all without even raising his voice.

"And anyway, once the prescription kicked in and the fungus went away I was back on the scene, ready to meet up with all the fine ladies," Luis broke into her thoughts, "like you. So what do ya say, babe? Ready to go hot-tubbing with Lucky Luis?"

"Er, oh no. I'm really sorry, nice as that sounds, but—" she scrambled for an excuse, "I have . . . uh, mesomorphism."

"Ohhhh," came the response. "Whoa. Is it like, catchable?"

"Sometimes," Josette admitted, fighting to keep a straight face. "The thing is, I really wouldn't want to give it to you and all. I keep it under control most of the time."

Luis nodded uncertainly. "Pills and stuff?"

"Exercise," Josette added softly, as if ashamed to admit it. "And what it does to my figure—I just don't want you to see it. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," Luis nodded. "We don't have to keep the lights on, I understand."

Josette stared at him; Luis tried to look magnanimous. "Hey, a lot of my ladies tell me they like me better in the dark."

"Yeah, well listen, I've just met you and all. I don't really feel comfortable thinking about you in the dark," Josette told him, deciding it was time to end this date once and for all. Her words didn't help; Luis drew his thick brows together and scowled.

"I thought we were getting along just great, Janette—"

"—Josette."

"—Yeah, Josette. I know I was picking up a really good vibe off you, and now you're just shutting me down? Come on—I'm a good guy; one of the best!"

"Luis, I'm sure you have a heart of gold, but I've got to go into work early tomorrow. It's been an . . . interesting evening," Josette told him softly, but firmly. She rose up, patted his hairy-knuckled hand and slid her purse strap onto her shoulder, feeling relief.

The relief didn't last long when Luis rose up as well, his expression distinctly annoyed. He followed her out of the bar and into the night; At the parking lot, Josette glanced over her shoulder at him, and frowned. "Luis—I'm not interested."

"I don't think you're giving me a chance. And I hate bitches who do that," he shot back. "You think you're so high and mighty because you can get a drink for free from me well I got news for you; nothing's free with me!"

Luis reached out for her wrist, his fingers hooking around it, but when he tried to yank her closer to him, a low growl cut through the night air, menacing and very, very close. He looked startled.

Josette looked startled too, but she had enough of her wits about her to jam her key into the lock of her car door and pull it open. Before she could climb into it though, the growl rumbled out again, and she stared.

Luis stood looking not at her, but down, at the asphalt. Sitting there in front of him was a large dog, his teeth bared, right at crotch level. Even then, it still took Luis a moment to back up. "Holy shit!!"

He kicked, reflexively, and his foot connected with the animal's shoulder; a quick snap of teeth and the top part of his fancy sneakers were shredded, exposing a none-too-clean sock. Luis yelped in shock and pain, and turned, scrambling away back towards the bar.

The dog made no move to follow. Instead, as Josette watched, it seemed to spit out the remnants of the shoe and shake its head, almost in reaction to the taste. She slammed the car door closed, terrified it would turn and move towards her, but the animal merely looked over its shoulder at her for a moment, brown eyes big. Then it began to limp away, and Josette felt a pang in her chest for her unexpected defender.

Cautiously she opened her door. "Hey boy--"

His ears perked up, and under the streetlight she could see that he had a shaggy coat of dark curly hair, more like a terrier than a German shepherd. Noise came from the bar, and people began coming out, shouting. Josette looked at the dog, who seemed to cringe a little.

She whistled. He glanced at the approaching people and seemed to come to a decision, leaping clumsily over Josette's lap and scrambling for the passenger side seat. She closed the door, started the car and wondered exactly how smart it was to lock oneself into a small, enclosed space with at strange dog.

Mr. Peppermint was awake. He kept his eyes closed though, and concentrated on listening, trying to decipher the sounds around him. Unfortunately, there were very few, and from the cramped position and rancid smells around him, he guessed that he was in the hold of a fishing boat, probably still in Cabo or very near it. There were no engine sounds, and the small rocking motions were familiar to him from his time on the _Bohemian_; they were either at berth or at anchor somewhere, not traveling.

Anger rose up in him as he recalled the ambush. It had been careless of him not to check the room; that was standard for any place used more than twice, especially out of the country. Nevertheless, whoever had taken him hadn't gotten away with out a few bruises; Mr. Peppermint remembered getting at least one good punch in before going under.

He tested his bonds. The bite of plastic restraints locking his hands together let Mr. Peppermint know whoever his assailant was, they were taking this seriously. He shifted a little and cautiously opened one eye into a dark hold. It was probably after ten o'clock, he guessed. Under him was a canvas covering what felt like coiled rope and crates of some sort: the assorted junk of a commercial fishing boat.

Mr. Peppermint flexed his fingers thoughtfully. His hands were in front of him, which was a definite advantage, and he assessed his person, wondering if any of his standard tools was still on him. He still had his shoes, but by the feel of it he didn't have his wallet, his watch or keys, so level one was out. He brought his bound hands to his chest and patted it.

He'd been frisked, and whoever had done it had snagged the collar knife. Frowning, Mr. Peppermint found his reading glasses in his breast pocket and hesitated.

Damn it, he really liked these glasses.

With a sigh, he pulled them out and looked around the cramped space. Mr. Peppermint rolled and found a section of cinderblock that someone had been using as an anchor for a crab pot; he set the glasses down and brought the heavy weight down on the lenses, wincing at the tinkle and crack. Carefully he used his two hands to find the largest, sharpest piece and turned the edge towards the plastic cuff, sawing on it gently.

No point in severing a vein by hurrying.

As he worked, he let his mind move over the list of potential assailants, and while the list wasn't long, the three names on it were all enough to make him slightly anxious. Not as much for himself, but for Miss Chocolate, and to a lesser degree the rest of his fellow confectioners. He was grateful his mother was safely honeymooning in Lisbon, and hopefully out of harm's reach.

A noise made him pause, and listen. The faint sound of a voice, but too soft to determine sex. Mr. Peppermint strained to hear, but the sound faded, and he realized the person was pacing overhead, and probably talking on a cell phone.

Interesting. So he was being held in captivity by a second in command, or hired goon. That explained the ease of ambush—probably a local, who bribed the concierge or threatened her family, then stayed in hiding until the right moment. A local would know exactly how to transport him without rousing suspicion as well.

The plastic band at his wrists snapped quietly under the last stroke of the broken glass and Mr. Peppermint smiled; his odds had just gotten better.

Mike TeeVee watched Toffee circulate, and admired her facile capacity for small talk. She'd told him earlier that the secret to working a party was to remember key words and smile a lot; something that clearly worked for her at the moment. He stood off to the side, drink in hand and let his gaze reluctantly move from her highly attractive backside to the faces of the other figures in the room.

A lot of them were vaguely familiar; lobbyists and Washington big names mingling with trophy wives, hangers-on and international guests, all loitering and lingering around the bar where two tenders were quietly working full speed. Mike admired their efficiency, and hoped their tips were good. The vodka martini they'd made for him was excellent, and he'd nursed it for the better part of an hour.

It was difficult not to scratch his beard, and Mike hoped he'd be able to get it off before too long. This posing as a Russian engineer was all well and good, but all he really wanted to do was . . . well it was pretty much not suitable for family hour, and involved a certain Senator's daughter. He checked his watch and sighed.

A little wrinkled woman with far too much eye shadow and a predatory stride came over to him. She barely came up to his shoulder, orange-red bouffant and all, and tipped her head up to meet his inquiring gaze. "You're a long drink of water, partner."

"Madam?" Mike replied cautiously. The woman had moved closer, and one long-nailed claw held a highball glass. She winked at him; a scary action that made her false eyelashes momentarily look like fighting tarantula legs.

"Been watching you. All alone tonight, huh Boris?"

"Not qvite," he rumbled back quickly, feeling a surge of panic run up his spine. Clearly someone's grandmother was feeling frisky tonight, and he wasn't about to be her Latvian love toy for any price. She gave him a pout that was supposed to be girlish, but ended up making her look more like a Raggedy Anne left out to dry. "A big hunk 'a borscht like you—I'm sure you're up for sharing, right?"

The idea of borscht coming in hunks was disconcerting enough, but the added horror of a threesome with this lusty Norfin troll set Mike's teeth on edge. He glanced around quickly, looking for rescue. Meeting Catherine's eyes, Mike sent her a silent plea; she smothered a grin and sailed over, hands extended to the tiny terror beside him, who had just patted his ass.

"Dixie! Oh honey, you look wonderful!" Catherine purred, bending down for an airy kiss alongside the withered old cheek proffered to her. The other woman reluctantly allowed her free hand to be plucked from Mike TeeVee's backside and patted between Catherine's fingers. "Good to see you keeping everyone on their toes."

"Cath! Hey honey! Heard you moved to Vegas and took that little sweet pea of yours with you!" Dixie brayed loudly enough to share this info with the people within ten feet of them. Catherine flinched the tiniest bit, but smiled again, her teeth very white.

"Yeah, I was just feeling a need to get back to my roots and all," she admitted. "And it's good for Lindsay to get to know my side of the family too."

"Oh yes, that's always good, you bet. I'm just surprised Sam didn't kick up a fuss about it. He's been grouchier than a bear with a beehive up his ass the last few months," Dixie confided. "I think he's not getting any, you know?"

Mike noted Catherine's mouth tightening a little at that, but she gave a shrug and laughed. "Well you know Sam—all work and no play."

"Oh I dunno—I've seen him flip through the pages," Dixie muttered in a lower, suddenly discreet voice. "Oy, listen to me and my big mouth. Forget that, honey. I think I need another drink--"

Toddling off, Dixie headed towards the bar, her short legs carrying her away quickly. Catherine looked up at Mike, and although she tried to look pleasant, there was worry in her expression too. Mike stuck his hand out and made a formal little bow.

"Mikhail Tevanovich," he rumbled, "I am electronics engineer from the East."

"How fascinating," Catherine replied with as straight a face as she could, taking his hand and shaking it. "I take it you and Dixie are an item?"

"Nyet. It is forbidden to date Stalin's babysitter," Mike told her solemnly, and Catherine had to turn away to hide her sudden attack of giggles. When she had recovered, she looked up at him again, her expression more serious.

"Time to head home—I've gotten Sam's itinerary and the inside info on that wedding hit. Oooh, you look ill."

"I do?" Mike murmured quizzically. Then Catherine reached up to feel his forehead and he closed his eyes, enjoying her cool touch. "Dah. Vodka not like old country. I must go lie down."

"Oh I agree, Mr. Tevanovich. Let me call you a cab—" Catherine told him with concern.

Miss Chocolate puttered around the loft, trying to settle down, but the tiny sense of unease wouldn't leave her. She'd re-alphabetized all the CDs over by the music system, and washed all the windows; she'd cleaned out the freezer and fed—well overfed, really—the cats, and still the little nagging disquiet kept her on her feet instead of going to bed.

The full moon hung low in the sky, and Miss Chocolate wondered if Mr. Peppermint was looking at it even now, and thinking of her as she was of him. She sighed, wishing she could have gone with him to Cabo. But it was a routine delivery, and she knew he would be home in less than twenty-four hours anyway, and then they could get back to the ongoing process of household negotiations.

Marriage? Yes. Wedding? Yes. One household? No. The gentle tug-of-war continued over the loft VS the _Bohemian_ with neither party quite ready to give up either home. Miss Chocolate was every bit as stubborn as Mr. Peppermint was on the issue, and secretly suspected that both residences would be kept simply because it fit their lifestyle.

The phone rang.

Miss Chocolate answered it, but the voice on the other end of the line wasn't the one she'd been hoping for.

"Channel three."

Miss Chocolate reached for the remote and turned the television on. The video of a burning building shown on the screen behind the reporter at his desk, and the caption under it read: _Three motel fires in Cabo San Lucas: Arson suspected._


End file.
